Find My Love (Then Find Me)
by tore-my-yellow-dress
Summary: Lizzie knows he's not in bed with her before she's even had the chance to open her eyes. Lizzington.


"_And when the moon, it shines, I will leave two lines. Find my love, then find me."- Daughter_

* * *

_/_

The door slams against the frame so hard that the reverberations crawl through the floor and up her legs. Makes her teeth rattle, even as they're already grinding at stone. Her jaw is starting to hurt from the tension, from the scream she bites back. Lizzie is trying to focus on the carpet. The way the pattern bleeds from royal purple to peach, ears ringing with contempt. The door opens, ever so softly, and then clicks shut. She spins, auburn hair wild and flying. "Red, don't you _dare _treat me like a damn toddler. I want to be left alone right now."

His mouth is a thin line, eyes narrowed at her like he has absolutely no clue what her attitude is about_. _

"This is our hotel room, Lizzie," he says simply, as if reminding her. He shrugs in a nonchalant fashion that makes her fists clench, goes to step away from her trembling form. "I fancy a drink and a change of clothes, hmm? What about you? I thought you'd said the Jacuzzi looked splendid earlier."

"So, what?" she hisses, moving to take out her earrings. The skin of her earlobes are enflamed and tender to touch. Lizzie winces, trying to grit the words between tight lips. "We're going to act like nothing just happened? What the hell _was_ that, Red?"

Lizzie turns on him again, stepping forward and forcing herself to lower her voice. It doesn't make the tremor that runs through the words any different. Desperate, wounded. Like gravel. "You were going to let that innocent girl _die," _she accuses.

The calm, unaffected demeanor of his shifts. He's stripped himself down to a thin cotton shirt, belt loosened and hanging. Red inhales sharply, stopping what he's doing and dropping his hands to his sides. "Lizzie, not right now."

There's an edge there; almost as if he's begging.

But she can't. It's too much, and she can still hear the young woman's screams. She can still _hear_ it.

"No," Lizzie says precisely. Slowly, as sure to enunciate perfectly. "_Now. _Why not now? No time like the present," she adds, sarcastic.

"Because in a few hours I believe you will comprehend the complexity of the situation, and there will be no need to explain things."

His eyes are empty, words monotone.

She looks into his dead eyes and at that moment, something terrible rears up within her.

Something awful.

"Or I'll leave you because I _can't stand_ the idea of spending the rest of my life with a monster."

She regrets the words the moment they form, face falling. The fight leaves her, ninety to zero, and her mouth goes dry at the way he lets the words hang there, the way he won't react any more than a twitch of his eye, a waver in his stance. As if her words physically hurt him.

"Red," she gasps, hot tears welling and clinging to her lashes. "Raymond, I didn't mean that."

Like falling, she stumbles into him, throwing her arms around his neck and burying her face in the crook of his neck. The thing is: he reacts, arms snaking around to hold her to him. To soothe _her. _Even if she's just screamed at him and lit matches to burn, he's still there, there for the mess and for her wreckage.

She loves him, then.

As Lizzie sniffles into his neck and hears the shrieks of an hour before echo, she allows his scent and warmth to envelop her. He kisses the crown of her head, and she can feel him sigh deeply when she holds him tighter. The sudden urge to cling to him is overwhelming.

"You did mean it," he says gently, matter of fact. Before she can go to refute, he continues on. "Don't think for a moment I don't cherish every single moment you've chosen to give me, Elizabeth. Some mornings I wake up and can't help but just bask in the knowledge that you're—

He breaks off, pulls back, sharpness in his tone. "Richard Hahn is a dangerous man, Lizzie. That woman you risked your life for today wasn't an innocent. She was one of his _many _escorts. You are infinitely lucky that when you decided to open your mouth and step into the line of his destruction he didn't just cut _your _throat for all his trouble. You should also thank Dembe for having the foresight to bring a nice little gun to the meet. Had he not-

She pulls away, sparks of incredulity in her veins. Lizzie blinks at him. "What was I supposed to do, Red? Watch her die? How do you justify that to yourself?"

He doesn't answer her, simply puckers the side of his mouth and studies the bruise forming on her wrist from where he'd grabbed her to pull her away from the chaos of Hahn and the girl. He tries to keep her safe. He _tries. _

"I've said it before, Lizzie."

"You don't have to say it again," she breathes, wilting. Fresh tears spill down her cheeks, and she hates him seeing her cry, she hates it, so she turns to use the restroom and wipes at her face. Red stops her.

His kiss is chaste, pressed against her cheek. A reassurance- but she moves, then.

Salty liquid on her lips, she cups his jaw and moves against him, tongue slipping between. All open and needy, and she almost sobs against him. Almost, but it comes out as a whimper that he answers by slipping his fingers into her hair, massaging. Lizzie needs. She breaks their connection only to lead him back, to pull him down with her onto the bed.

The lights are on when they make love.

A few times she thinks she sees a strange expression on his face, some kind of reckoning, but then she thinks his hands feel like forgiveness. She tells him she's sorry she put them both in danger and he strokes her hipbones. She tells him she's sorry she's not the Bonnie to his Clyde and he chortles against her collarbone, fills her hard and deep and makes her want to be that person for him. With him.

He tells her he loves her as she is, and she imagines the darkness she sees on Red's face is a shadow cast by unfavorable yellow bulbs.

/

Lizzie wakes at three in the morning to find him writhing in his sleep.

Her first instinct is to shake him awake, and it works. Red comes to and lets out a strangled moan, sweat beaded on his forehead. He heaves for long moments, gets his breathing under control as best he can before she asks him what the dream was about. Her thumb traces his jaw as he collects his words.

"You died," he finally manages, voice cracking miserably. "You were dying."

The haze of exhaustion takes her again, and she really can't help it. The emotional turmoil is finally taking its toll. "I didn't," Lizzie says, hushed like a mother to a child. "I'm right here, Red."

Lizzie rolls so that she can shimmy against his chest, guides him to wrap a firm arm around her waist, her back pressed against his entire body. His breathing is in her ear, heavy. "Feel me," she tries. "Feel me right here."

His touch feels good, and he seems to relax, so she gives in to the next tide of drowsiness.

Lizzie's eyes flutter shut.

/

She sleeps, and he doesn't.

She sleeps, so she doesn't know that he never finds peace again that night.

She sleeps, so she doesn't know he makes an irrevocable decision.

She sleeps, so she doesn't know he stays awake just to memorize her scent and the way she breathes and the feel of her skin.

She sleeps, so she doesn't feel how his body twitches lightly with silent tears, how he begins to grieve even before he's driven a car into a tree, swallowed a bottle of pills; how he's digging a grave to lie in.

She sleeps, so she has no Earthly idea he's about to make a decision that will change their lives forever.

/

She sleeps, so she doesn't see him gather his things and look at her one last time.

She doesn't hear him whisper, "I love you."

/

Lizzie knows he's not in bed with her before she's even had the chance to open her eyes.

Fragments of sunlight stream in through an open window, and she turns, whines at the crackling of her joints. The sheets are still warm, and the air-conditioner is positively frigid, so she turns into the covers like a burrowing animal. He must be shaving, she thinks.

Pity. She likes it when he wears a bit of stubble.

After a moment or two she realizes there isn't any rustling or the buzz of an electric razor, so she moves onto her back, something in her stomach rolling.

"Red?" she calls out.

There's no response.

Lizzie rolls onto the balls of her feet within the next four seconds, swaying as vertigo hits. She feels hung over from the crying of last night. Shielding her naked body with the comforter off the floor, she moves through the suite and takes note he's already packed up, which makes sense. They were only staying in Florence for the afternoon, and check out was early. She checks the clock, and goes to make a call.

The woman at the front desk sounds snippy.

"Hi," Lizzie murmurs, voice thick and hazy. "This is," she struggles to remember their aliases, for a moment. "This is Liz Bentley. My husband may have left to run an errand this morning with our bodyguard. Would you happen to have seen him?"

There's static on the other end of the line, and she can hear the woman asking the other person at the concierge desk. After a moment, there's a brusque response. "Yes. Mr. Bentley left the room key with us around six this morning to transfer into your keeping."

"Oh," Lizzie swallows, looking down at her bare thighs.

Red really is unsettled if he didn't want her to go on business with him. It's understandable, but still strings. She lets it roll, though. They'll have to talk it out later, this time with no screaming or torrid intercourse involved. Lizzie puts the phone down when she realizes the woman has hung up.

She goes to dress and find her sneakers.

A good run is the perfect cure for her current state of unrest.

/

They don't have phones, so it doesn't cross her mind to call his cell.

Life on the run is far from simple.

/

By the time she's panting and thoroughly throbbing, she's at a quaint little sidewalk café and stops to have a glass of water before she sets off for the hotel, back the way she came. It's been an hour or so, and she figures by the time she gets back he should be there to pick her up. She'd packed her suitcase before her run.

He hasn't told her their next destination yet. That's always the best part of their flight, how he has her guess and guess through a series of riddles. The thought brings a smile to her face.

/

The environment of the hotel lobby is just as freezing since she's been expelling body heat. Her arms go to hold her torso to create warmth, and she almost runs to the elevator for the way her teeth chatter, but then:

"Mrs. Bentley?" the concierge calls out, loud.

It's incredibly unprofessional in the upscale establishment. Lizzie's cheeks turn pink for the way people stop and look. She strides meaningfully over, pops her leg behind her other heel. "Yes?"

The woman won't even look up at her, offers the room key.

Lizzie stares at it. "We'll be checking out within the hour," she says by way of explanation. "You can just keep that. I believe we have an extra and they should be back by now, so-

The woman, _Marie, _Lizzie reads, looks up at her like she's shocked. "Madame," her accent trills. "You have the suite for a week at least. Your husband informed us this morning that if you so choose he will pay for the suite as long as you like."

The blood drains from Lizzie's face.

The key is waved in front of her face.

She takes it.

/

Her legs feel like lead as she trudges through the winding corridor to the room, and she knows.

She knows, but there's a part of her that still resists even the connotation that he would-

_That's not possible,_ she thinks. _He's waiting for me upstairs. He's waiting and Dembe has already taken my luggage down to the car and I'm going to kiss him and tell him the silliest thing just happened to me._

But loving someone is a funny thing.

She sees only what she wants to see.

/

But then she sees the room is still empty, and she calls out for him.

Lizzie calls his name over and over, body wracking with her loss. She finds herself slid down against a wall, arms around her knees. Everything is a blur and she thinks the crown molding is gorgeous and she feels like her world is ending. She feels like someone is flaying her insides, and it hurts.

Everything hurts and she knows he's left her.

She knows she's alone and that he isn't coming back because she finds a note.

It's white, the same color as the pillows, and if she had just opened her eyes and _looked _this morning she would have seen it, but she didn't. And now here she is, memorizing the curve of his elegant script and feeling her heart tear itself apart. Lizzie cries and cries and then she repeats the words to herself.

"_This is for the best," _she reads aloud, pathetic and crazed. "_I'm sorry."_

"I'm sorry," she cries out, grasping at any fray of hope. Like he can hear her. Like he can see her like this. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I won't save anyone else, Raymond, please. Please come back. Please come back. I won't—I won't save—I won't—"

The piece of parchment crumples in her grip, but then she gathers herself. Lizzie smoothes the paper back out as if it's sacred, as if it's precious. Lizzie tries to stand, but ends up crawling on her knees to the bed, hoisting herself onto the mattress. It smells like him, and she doesn't understand why he's doing this to her, doesn't understand. Lizzie buries her head in the pillow and lets out a tormented scream.

Waves lapping at her, the tide threatening to pull her under.

She's not this person who gives half their soul to somebody else and expects to come out able and standing. But Red's not just some boy in high school and soul mates aren't supposed to break each other's hearts. And he's her world, and she thought she was his.

And she's alone.

He's left her all alone, and they made a pact, see. They made a pact.

And she loves him.

She loves him.

_She loves him. _

_She loves him. _

The ocean of loss takes her, and she welcomes it.

She does not resurface.

.

.

.

.

The door to the room makes a strange noise, like the lock is being forced open, and Lizzie stares at it like it's the last shred of hope. As if the whole universe has refined to the sound.

A stern heel steps forward instead of black dress shoes, and Lizzie thinks she might be going insane with want, with need. It's been a week.

It's been a week since she last touched his face.

Mr. Kaplan's expression is grim. "If there were any problems, I was the person who was to be called."

Elizabeth brushes her tangled hair behind her ear, clears her throat that's raw from all the tears. She's wearing clean clothing. She's allowed room service to clean when they come. "There aren't any problems," she mutters, fixing the older woman with a gutted look.

"Where is he?"

Mr. Kaplan is silent, looking upon Lizzie like a speck of dust. Meaningless, dull, and Lizzie feels that way. She feels as if she's been left to waste away. She feels nonexistent. It's strange, considering after Tom and his death she should have felt like this then; she should have felt the struggle for identity. But now- now it feels like she doesn't know how to put one foot in front of the other.

"Elizabeth, the staff tells me you have not left this room in seven days, and you haven't gone to eat or consumed complimentary breakfast in four," Kaplan explains, sighing and moving forward to grasp Lizzie's arm. She goes to protest, but Mr. Kaplan has a strong grip for such a petite woman.

Lizzie goes where she's taken, eyes lowered. A part of her wonders, but then doesn't. She's pulled into the bathroom, and the older woman turns on the shower with ease, pulling her-

"_What the hell," _Lizzie coughs and splutters under the icy spray. "I'm not in shock!"

She tries to move from Mr. Kaplan, but the woman holds tight to her, won't let her leave. "Please," Lizzie begs. "Please let me go. It's cold."

Mr. Kaplan doesn't even flinch away from the water that's soaking her too.

The expression never changes, but finally, finally she shuts the water off.

They stand there, dripping. Lizzie begins to shiver, gulps and shakes. "What the hell," she murmurs weakly, closing her eyes against the onslaught of tremors. "What was that for?"

"To wake you up," Mr. Kaplan's grimace deepens. "Now," she moves away, releasing her death grip on Lizzie's wrist. The skin is rubbed raw, and Lizzie watches the woman hand her a towel before finding one for herself. "Dry yourself off, Elizabeth. There's business to discuss."

/

Which is how Lizzie finds herself on the couch, her familiar spot, picking at a seven pepper steak salad and randomly tasting steaming baked potato soup. It's her favorite. Mr. Kaplan knows that, and she doesn't know how, can't fathom how she got ahold of such a specific dish in a foreign country, of all places. But she knows, this terrible sinking in the pit of her stomach.

She doesn't want to eat, but under the watchful gaze of the woman, she feels inclined.

"There's an account in Grand Caiman that's reserved for you," Mr. Kaplan begins, looking down at her phone. "Funds are virtually unlimited. You may live wherever you'd like. You may use whatever means of transportation suit your need. I have the number of a private airline service and the charter that has been bought for you specifically. It's all in your name."

The words are processed in walls, but when she takes it all in, it sinks deep into her bones.

Makes her want to kick things.

Makes her want to bite her lip bloody.

She wants to ask Mr. Kaplan where he is again, but she knows the answer would be the same as before, and she doesn't fancy another cold shower. Suddenly, she aches. Lizzie _aches. _Because just the thought of hearing his voice-

"So, that's it?" Lizzie croaks, blue eyes glistening as she looks out the window at the setting sun. Seven days ago, they were standing right there. She could've kissed him, kept her mouth shut, but she wasn't. She was screaming at him.

"I'll never see him again," she clarifies, feels empty. "He'll pay me off to never come looking for him and not kick up too much of a fuss. He wanted to be rid of me that bad."

Mr. Kaplan's hand is startlingly cold when it rests upon her own. Lizzie doesn't jerk away.

"I do not inquire as to what my client's motives are, but Raymond and I have formed a sort of bond over the years," she tells Lizzie simply. There aren't any traces of personal in the woman's voice, but if she didn't care at all, she wouldn't be saying anything. "I believe he truly cares for you, Elizabeth, and maybe in time, you will see his motives are pure. Perhaps this is for the best."

Lizzie shudders and rips her hand away, standing. "Thank you for the information, Mr. Kaplan. And for dinner. Now, I would prefer you take your leave. I'm tired."

Calmly, the woman stands to leave. Before she opens the door, she looks back at Elizabeth.

"This is likely the last time I will ever see you, Elizabeth," she says, and this time the words do carry a hint of remorse, of depth. But the expression is still the same. The world is still the same. Lizzie's lip quivers, but she grinds her teeth against the urge to throw herself to the floor again.

She hasn't done that in at least three days.

"Fine," she ends up saying. "Good. I never want to see anybody associated with Raymond Reddington ever again."

But Dembe, Dembe had become her friend. She'd thought Dembe had cared, and they shared so many private jokes, and Dembe patched her up when she accidentally cut her foot on a rock. Dembe was her friend, and just to be able to taste his cooking or hear his booming laughter is-

The door closes with a soft thud, and Lizzie finds Mr. Kaplan gone from her life, too.

/

She once had real friends.

Once upon a time, a lifetime ago. Three years ago. Has it really been three years?

There was Don and Cooper and Aram. There had been a list of names that were ticked off like clockwork, and that team had become her support, her backbone. When the day came to leave it all behind in trade for a life with Red, she hadn't given it a second thought. With all the bad blood, she'd never climb the ranks at the FBI. And Raymond was her home. Raymond was her home, and now he's gone, and she's this wandering nomad, a kite without a string, and the by the ninth day she calls the airline and asks the pilot what his name is.

It's Bill. Bill Peters. Generic. She wonders if it's his real name.

She asks him, "Can we be friends if you're the pilot of my private jet?"

And Bill laughs. Bill laughs, and ask her where she wants to go.

"Someplace with lots of green," she answers, staring up at the ceiling. There was always lots of green where she grew up. Trees and grass, and the smell of rain. She wishes she could go back to the place she spent her childhood.

Unfortunately, if she stepped one foot inside the border, they would arrest her for aiding and abetting.

"I'll surprise you," Bill responds, chuckling. "When would you like to leave, Ms. Elizabeth?"

His smell has faded from the pillows she hasn't let the maid service change.

There's nothing keeping her here anymore.

"As soon as possible."

/

In Dublin, she sleeps a lot.

Lizzie doesn't know if it's the depression or the rain, or maybe a combination of both, but when she goes out to run in the drizzle or sightsee, by the end of the day she's always struggling to eat before bed. She sleeps hard, far deeper into unconsciousness than she had in Florence, all alone.

She wakes up cold, has to have more blankets from room service, and it's strange to be in a normal hotel room for a change. A suite isn't necessary. It wasn't until him that she learned how to live extravagantly, but the truth is she never developed a taste for it.

There's a café she sits at and a bookshop down the way from it, and she takes the opportunity to immerse herself in books. She used to always read, always had a book on her nightstand, when she was married. These past three years there just hasn't been the time. Still, it's a weak distraction.

Every man in a fedora is him, until she sees the face.

Generally, when she sees the face, she tries to pretend she didn't look in the first place.

Time drags, and she wonders how normal people do it. How people go through normal lives and never know passion or the precipice of beauty in another's body. How they live without it once it's gone.

/

One night, the night it's officially been a month since she's felt the pound of his heart beneath her palm, she goes out at night. The Irish do like their whiskey. She likes their gall, so she stays at the bar until three in the morning. Tries to find a man to kiss, but decides against it.

She likes herself more.

She does enjoy, however, the way this one guy holds his cigar between his teeth.

There's a smoke store next to the pub, its neon signs flashing in the haze of half dawn.

Lizzie goes in.

/

The first puff of it has her choking so hard her face nearly turns blue, but the second is better. By the third she can grin and bare it, and by the sixth, it all smells good. It smells so good it makes her chest hurt, and she's so drunk. Everything hurts, and she inhales deeply, and tries to ignore the sensation of taste, because it tastes like him, too.

She tastes what she can never have.

/

The next morning, she wakes up and spends the first half of the afternoon hovered over a toilet bowl.

/

The day after her call to hair of the dog, Lizzie finds it within herself to venture inside the boutique she passes every day on her routine runs. It's a trendy place, not as high fashion as she's sure she's accustomed to at this point, but still. There's a dress she had spotted in the window; blue and pretty. She likes it, and hey, if she wants to splurge on herself, she damn well deserves it.

After everything, she deserves this.

The shop keeper is lovely, offers to help her zip the flowing material. It's humid enough to wear something like this during the season, and the color is pleasant for her skin tone. It's-

"Ah," Lizzie hisses, hands going to cup her chest. The woman mutters quick apologies, eyes wide as her accent flows. "No, no," Lizzie assures. "It's- I'm tender. It's fine. I'm- I- I think my time of the month is almost here," she attempts to explain, stuttering.

The shop keeper nods understandingly, cocking her head and smiling, stepping away to allow Lizzie space to look in the mirror. But Lizzie isn't paying attention to that.

Lizzie is looking in the mirror, looking into her own eyes.

Her mouth is moving.

Counting.

She counts once.

And then she counts again.

And then she counts a third time.

"You think?" the woman asks, motioning to the dress. "Beauty, yes?"

"I think…"Lizzie trails off, looks down at the beige of the carpet. Her skin is the color of milk.

She thinks she might vomit, right then and there.

"I think I'm pregnant," Lizzie says in barely a whisper, more for herself than anyone else.

/

Then there's a pink plus sign and hours upon hours of staring at it and studying her figure naked in the mirror, touching at the crest of her stomach, incredibly small but rounding. There's thinking back to the night she must how conceived, and how they'd laid on a rooftop, a pallet of pillows and blankets Red had personally made. The steak au poivre delicious, the wine ruby and staining. Paris. They'd been in Paris, because it was her favorite place, and it had been her birthday. It had been her birthday, and this child will have birthdays. And Red won't be there for them.

And she wants to tell him. She wants to tell him so bad it physically pains her, but there's still a part of herself that is angry with him, that wants to howl at the unfairness of this moment. He should be here. He should have held her hand while they waited for the results of the stupid test.

He should be kissing her, and telling her how great of a mother she'll be, that the past does not define the present.

But he's not, because this child is doomed to be just like she. A criminal for a father. A criminal for a mother. Criminals, a whole family of criminals, and Red has left her, and he's not coming back. He's not better than her father. He's no better.

Lizzie lights a cigar and takes a long waft before stubbing it out.

Guilt is too rampant, and it's a strange kind of twinging. Protective.

She's protective, and in that singular moment, she _hates _being in this whole predicament.

Weak and alone and needing.

She hates it all.

/

Conveniently, an English phonebook is located in her room; it's funny how everything about anything is indicative of her condition, now. Like how when she goes to bend over to slide it from beneath a shelving unit, she grows dizzy and has to nearly fall back onto the bed. The address of the clinic is black, clear, and she wonders if she should make an appointment.

She wonders if she hails a taxi to the most crowded public place and screams the truth, if he'll come back to her. She decides she wouldn't want that at all.

Lizzie remembers very little of her childhood. That is, what wasn't spent with Sam.

She vaguely recalls the sweet taste of peaches on her tongue. Her mother had been a beautiful woman. Peaches and cottage cheese. She can't stand the taste anymore. She can't stand the idea of this child growing up without a father, with the stigma of shame. So Lizzie makes a decision.

She makes a decision, and she calls to make an appointment.

/

They confirm it.

It's nothing she didn't already sense, feel with every fiber of her being, so she grows frustrated by the broken English, by the prying hands of the female doctor. The walls of the facility are a dull yellow, and it makes her nauseated, makes her feel like running as far as she can, but she resigned herself to fate this morning. Stared at her reflection in the hotel room's bathroom mirror and thought that in another lifetime (one where he didn't go and leave her like a lost love letter), she would have wanted his child. She would have wanted it, but not now. It kills her to have to do this, feels like ripping at a scab. Lizzie just wants this over with, and the woman keeps asking her the same menial questions.

One month, twenty three days since her last menstrual cycle.

No, she's never been pregnant.

So, no, _obviously _she's never given birth.

She does not smoke. (Five cigars don't count.)

She drinks occasionally.

She has no allergies.

She is taking no medication.

She is thirty four years old.

No, _there hasn't been any spotting. _

(She wonders if Red was there for his first wife for all of these things. She knows Red was on assignment so often, but she also remembers him telling her about feeling Zoe kick, how that first time he knew he was destined to be her father. She wonders, and wonders, and she just wants to stop wondering.)

(Furthermore, a part of her is separating fact from fiction. It's a clump of cells, and even if Red helped her make this clump of cells, it's not a child yet. It's not a baby yet. Not yet, and it can never be, because Red is gone, and she's not doing this alone. She's not going to subject a child to a life alone. She won't.)

"Please," Lizzie goes, hasty. "Please, can we just get this over with? The receptionist informed me the vacuum- the thing- would only take two or three hours."

The doctor pauses mid-sentence, clucking. "Alright, alright. It is procedure, yes? One more thing. Ultrasound. You need an ultrasound."

Lizzie cringes, the idea of having to _see it _too much. "No, no, thank you. Thank you but no. That won't be necessary."

"Not intrusive," the doctor soothes, patting Lizzie's arm and flicking on a machine that whirs, just off to her right. She wheels it over, the chords tangling and moving. "Lie back, please. We do this and then I shall send you to our anesthesiologist for IV sedation, hmm?"

Lizzie's ears are hot, face scorching, and the material of the gown she had to change into makes her itch, itch, itch. "Why do we have to do this?"

"Procedure," the doctor says shortly. "Lie back, _please. _We get this over with quicker if you do not argue, yes?"

Heart like a train on tracks pumping through her head, she lies back and looks up at the ceiling and squeezes her eyes shut through the shocking temperature of the strange smelling gel, and she hates that she has to go through this. He promised he'd never leave her. He promised he would always be there if she needed him, and she needs him, and he's gone. He's gone.

The wand is firm on the skin of her slightly protruding stomach, and her eyes are clenched shut so she can't _see, _but then the doctor makes this strange noise in the back of her throat. Lizzie's eyes briefly open, and then close again. No. She can't.

She can't, but then the doctor makes the noise again, and Lizzie actually _growls. _"What? What is it?"

"Something that changes how we do the procedure."

That breaks through, makes her eyebrows furrow. "What?"

She's still keeping her eyes anywhere except the screen. Lizzie knows the viewing screen is there, but it's not. It's not there for her to see. That's what she's telling herself. The doctor reaches out and pats Lizzie's arm again, somehow motherly and condescending at the same time.

"Two."

"Two what?"

It's the first thing out of her mouth: dumbfounded, oblivious.

"There is two fetus, Ms. Scott," the woman tells her, all stupid broken English, and Lizzie looks at the doctor's wide features, and then she lets herself _look. _And the doctor is right. The doctor is right, and, and there's-

She's-

She is-

Two. There's two contracting movements on the darkened monitor. Heartbeats.

Those are heartbeats, and-

Two babies, _two, _and-

"_Stop," _Lizzie whimpers, face contorting in a mask of pain and grief. "Oh my God. Oh my _God."_

The doctor doesn't look put out by the look on Elizabeth's face. Instead, she gives a small, knowing smile. The machine is turned off with certainty, a paper towel smoothed over Lizzie's stomach to remove excess gel. "I shall give you time, yes?"

The doctor leaves, shuts the door quietly.

Lizzie pulls her feet around to rest on the ground, all her limbs like a ragdoll.

The tears come, stinging and blinding. She stares at the disgusting color of the wall and wonders if this is how it was always meant to be, this vicious cycle. She wonders and she imagines two children- boys. All Red. Mischievous and then thoughtful and then rambunctious again. Intelligent and driven. Happy.

She imagines rocking them to sleep and getting little sleep herself, imagines kissing booboos and righting their own disputes. Two. And it's not just that the number has risen, not at all. She knew, the moment she stepped into the clinic, she would be unable to follow through if she saw the heartbeat, saw the evidence of life. The mind is a powerful evidentiary support, but not enough for her, anymore. Heartbeats are proof. Heartbeats are fact, and a part of her, quiet and aching, is unbelievably glad the doctor made her look.

Slowly, like touching a wild animal, Lizzie's hand creeps to her gown, to her middle.

Rests there.

And just like that, the course of the future shifts.

.

.

.

.

Maps all spread out before her. Red dots and lines of blue sharpie. She sees the connections like paths of light. He always said he loved this about her, the way her mind would become a changing beacon of connections. He'd have probably never imagined she would be using it for finding him, of all people. But she is. She will find him. She has to.

Lizzie pops another peanut butter cracker in her mouth, shifting on her feet uncomfortably.

Back aching under the weight, she turns to look out the window, to study the scenery and let her mind pivot. The snowcapped mountains of Nepal was something he'd told her he'd show her once or twice. Three years into their journey, they still hadn't made it.

But the humidity had made her feel stuffy, so she'd wanted cold. She'd wanted harsh, the kind of climate that would make her mind clearer. It's not complimentary of discrepancy, though.

Bundled up as she is, layers of undershirts and a fluffy jacket to boot, at five months along she looks like a beached _Shamu. _Feels like one, anyway. The villa she's been renting is private enough that nobody pays too much attention to anyone else. She's glad for that.

Mount Everest is gorgeous. White and sparkling. Regal.

Lizzie looks at the papers in front of her again.

She misses the way Dembe would make hot chocolate. Misses how she'd kiss the whipped cream off of Red's mouth, how they'd rock in the darkness, a fire lit up for smoldering. She misses the intimacy and the laughter and the companionship. She misses Raymond Reddington like a ghost, like somebody already dead. Startled, she flinches and moves a hand to the side of her stomach, to her ribs.

"Hey, now," she soothes, best she can. "Be good for Mommy. Soon. Just a little while longer, okay? We'll find them."

/

The first time one of them moved for her, Lizzie didn't know how to react. It was sudden and indescribable, like the fluttering of a butterflies wings. As the months have progressed, when one moves, the other follows. Some chorus of limbs, and she stays up half the night some nights, just feeling them. Whispering to them. Singing to them.

She wonders if Red would kiss her stomach. If he would speak to them in the same manner.

If he would recite poetry, or tell stories of far-away places. Of art and music and culture.

But imagination is the cruelest kind of punishment, so she settles for taking her prenatal vitamin, and praying about it twice a day.

(She wasn't religious, before.)

/

"Bill?"

It's six thirty, quiet in the room where she's stayed for three months. It hasn't even felt a little like home. (She's searching for him, searching for home.)

"Ms. Elizabeth," he greets, sounding half asleep. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm tired of the cold," she tries to joke, but she's only half kidding. "I've heard Fiji is stunning."

/

The pilot sees her and gapes openly.

"You didn't- you're-

"I know," she murmurs, thankful he's taking her bag without another word. She settles into her seat and watches as he cranes his neck to take her in again. "It's been a little while, huh?"

"I'll say," Bill scoffs, stunned. "How far along? Are you okay to fly?"

"I'll be fine," she reassures, grin warm and full. "Twenty nine weeks, and very healthy. Twins, so that might be why I look ready to pop."

"Oh," he murmurs in response, eyes darkening. Here's the thing: Lizzie knows he was chosen specifically. She knows that Red bought this plane for her knowing he could get updates on her state of living, updates on her flight itinerary. In any case, Bill probably thinks Red left her because of the pregnancy, if his reaction is any testament.

"He doesn't know," she supplies, quieter.

"Who?" Bill looks up at her innocently, drawn up from where he was openly staring at her protruding stomach. Lizzie half glares.

"He doesn't know," she says again. "And I'd like to keep it that way. _I'd _like to be the one to tell him, Bill. Do you know where he is?"

She doesn't expect him to answer, and he doesn't, frown deepening. "I'm sorry," he says mournfully. "I truly don't know. Our airline prides itself on the privacy we offer for a reason. Congratulations, though."

His expression broadens, perking. "Boys or girls?" he asks her, moving to close the hatch.

Lizzie snorts, cheeks going pink. "Both."

"Which is bigger? The bigger one will protect the little one, I'll bet," Bill comments, good natured.

"He's bigger, but I don't think that means anything," Lizzie thinks aloud. "They'll protect each other."

_And I'll protect them, _she thinks to herself.

/

White, hot sand sinks between her toes, and Lizzie moans under her breath at the feel of it, relishes the heat. Her bathing suit is two piece, unashamed. The pale skin she displays is covered in sunscreen, and a part of her is almost embarrassed to admit she'd had to ask a female staff member of the hotel to assist with her back. It was worth it, though.

So worth it.

The increment of land up to the shoreline is a jaunt of leg strength, but once she's there the waves are cool and perfect. Sea salt permeates her nostrils, birds crying out. The beach is private. She'd had it reserved for her and only her.

(She's passing off the impulse buy as the babies needing TLC, knows that he would spoil her rotten if he was here with her. As it is, she can't rub her own feet anymore. Some days it's hard to go for more than a few hours, and he should be here. He should be here.)

Lizzie lays out a towel and gets as comfortable as she can on her side, sunglasses heavy on her eyes.

"Red?" she whispers, patting the sand beside her. "The trail of your whereabouts leads here. You're in Suva. I know you are. Now come to me."

She can feel it in her bones. Like a compass pointing due north; she _knows _he's near.

/

The Hibiscus festival is jarringly loud, voices and bright sirens of color. Lizzie's sunburn makes movements even more unsure than usual, but she brushes it off because she knows any discomfort will soon be fallen to the wayside in comparison to the resoluteness of being. He's here.

He's here, because months and months before, January, it was in January-

He'd said they would be here together. That there was business to attend to here, during this event. That it was something to look forward to. And she knows he's left her for some unmentionable reason, like keeping her safe because of her own justice driven tendencies, but she also knows that if he saw her now he would understand the bigger picture. He would see that she's changed.

He would see that she'll do anything to be with him.

He's fought for her countless times, almost gone to the ends of the Earth for her favor; this is her fighting for him, for a place in his life.

A bar offers seating, and Lizzie chooses that moment to sink down into a metal chair someone has offered up. Being so pregnant grants one more passes than strictly necessary, and she's glad. Her feet are stinging.

But at the same time, she doesn't _actually _care. She's looking, can feel his presence like a hum in her veins. So much going on around her, it could be sensory overload, but instead everything has come down to a pinpoint of energy, of focus.

She's waiting.

She's waiting, and then-

And then-

She sees it.

She sees her sign, wants to _giggle _because his hat is the first thing she recognizes. He has to be twenty or thirty feet away, and it's just his hat, but among the ambiance of the entertaining festival, his dress sticks out like a sore thumb. And it's not just his hat, like it had been in every man in Dublin with a fedora. It's his jawline.

It's his jacket, and the ears. Those are his ears. Those are- that's-

Lizzie clumsily rises to her feet, heart in her throat. The crowd is wild, but she's moving towards him, looks down at her stomach before she's five feet in. Suddenly, bleakly conscious of her state. But Lizzie brushes that back too. Holds her hands over her bump in a protective fashion, and moves forward.

Dembe. She sees _Dembe _and-

Lizzie opens her mouth to scream out his name, but stops when she sees the true nature of the picture in front of her. The man, the contact, and a crew of four or five other individuals behind him. He's holding his arm low, like he has a gun that he's showing Red, and all the air leaves Lizzie's lungs. Time stops, but Lizzie moves faster.

Something makes Lizzie move more swiftly, and she's in Dembe's line of sight before Red has the chance to see her. It's so loud that she has to judge reactions based upon facial features, and Dembe-

Dembe recognizes her.

Then, something goes through his dark eyes. The lights shining and flickering, fire and heat of the island, and Lizzie realizes he looks absolutely _terrified. _And Dembe shouldn't be- Dembe isn't-

Lizzie stops in her tracks, but Red had turned to say something to Dembe, and Dembe hadn't answered, so Red had turned to see what held Dembe's attention, and-

And then Red sees her.

Face goes slack, mouth falling open. Brow line raising, and he looks, he looks-

Lizzie is still rooted where she stands. There's still space to go. She doesn't want to move, but then somebody from behind her bumps into her, and she's so uncoordinated because of the extra weight, and she just stumbles on forward. Walks forward those last few steps, eyes burning with unshed tears. The babies kick and kick, and she doesn't know what's happening.

It's all so confusing.

Red's hands are at his sides, and a drum is thumping constant and wielding. It was a gun, she realizes. There's a gun pointed in Red's direction. In her direction now, too. Red takes a step forward, his arm moving as if through water. He touches her arm, and it feels like pure electricity. Jolting.

She feels so top heavy, feels so large, and he's touching her arm, and he leans in to whisper in her ear, lips grazing her skin, "Lizzie, you shouldn't be here."

And he looks like he's going to cry.

He looks helpless, tormented, and then she hears, even above all the chaos of their surroundings, the man with the gun tells his friends, "_Take her."_

And then a gun goes off, and she sees red, red, red.

And they take her.

They take her, and everybody begins to scream.

And she never stops screaming.

.

.

.

.

They don't have to tie her down like they once would have.

Just her arms and her feet. The dexterity she once had is gone. She's hungry, and they won't give her much food or water. She's hurting, body cramping in odd places from where they kick her and how they've pushed her this way and that.

The babies barely move.

She waits, and she cries, and she waits some more.

(_"Please," _she whispers to her stomach, when she thinks her captors can't hear her. _"Please, stay. I know it's a lot of stress, but your Daddy is coming. And he's going to save Mommy, and he's going to save you both. It's going to be okay. It's going to be okay, so please stay. Please."_)

/

With her right index finger, she traces patterns to keep herself occupied.

More often than not, it's the image of the scars on Red's back that keeps her sane. She's had them memorizes since the night he lay on his stomach, let her discovery with kisses and side of cheek. He'd hummed and she'd felt tears trickle down her cheeks, because those markings embodied all he'd ever done for her, all that she could not repay.

"Once upon a time," she whispers to her children, doesn't care if the sons of bitches can hear her or not. "Once upon a time, there was a king, and they called him the concierge of crime. And he saved a little girl because he was still good, even though everybody else thought he wasn't. But what he didn't know is that the girl would grow into a woman. And she'd fall in love with him. And she was lucky enough to have him love her back. And that love changed their entire universes."

/

"_I promise I'll always find you, Lizzie," _he'd whispered to her, the millisecond before pressing his lips to her own for the first was years ago, but he'd promised.

He'd promised, so he finds her.

/

Lizzie feels something hit her in the back of the head very hard, and then she thinks no more.

.

.

.

.

Lizzie comes to and feels hands on her shoulders, holding her down. She twists, coughs, wants to scream but there's a tube down her throat, and-

She hacks once it's removed, esophagus scratched and biting her lips because of how dry everything feels, and it's all a blur of colors, until-

"Shh," Red tells her gently, pressing the straw of a cup to her mouth. "It's alright. It's alright, sweetheart."

She drinks, making out his face, his gentle eyes. Tears spring, and damn it, she cries so much because of-

Lizzie breaks away, making a sound of pain and fear, hands going for her- but the IV won't let her touch, and are they- did she-

"Shh," Red garners her attention, thumb rough and grabbing on the edge of her jaw. He's like this with her because he doesn't want her to worry, doesn't want her to think-

"They're fine. They're strong. Fighters," his voice goes to gravel, eyes glassing. "Just like their mother."

Lizzie sinks back down into the pillows, eyes only for the curve of her beneath the sheets. "I thought that they would-

"I know," he cuts her off, nostrils flaring. "It was a touch in go for everybody for a while there. You sustained some pretty ghastly damage from the concussion. They didn't know if you'd ever wake."

"But they're okay," she repeats to herself. "They're okay."

"They're perfect," Red murmurs, voice thick with emotion, again. "They're going to be so beautiful, Lizzie. I'm so sorry. I'm so-

And she knows he's referring to the other, to the unspoken. He breaks off, inclining his head. He's sitting by her bedside, the machines beeping. He lowers his mouth to her hand, pressing his lips there, before laying his cheek against her palm in a gesture of offering. Lizzie won't let him hold there, but scratches her nails along his scalp, caressing his skin. He's almost bowed before her, shoulders shaking with silent tears.

"Shh," she hushes him, and she sees the moisture wetting the blanket, knows how moved he is, in this moment. "Shh."

"I forgive you," she tells him.

"I don't think I'll ever forgive myself," Red tells her roughly, glancing up to meet her alert gaze. "What have I done, Lizzie? What have I done?"

"Shh," Lizzie's mantra goes, and then she instructs him, "Feel my stomach."

His eyes widen at the order, but curiosity and instinct gets the better of him, so he does.

"Lower."

And then-

"_Ah," _he gasps, eyes reddening further. "Well, hello."

"Raymond," she speaks softly, adjusting so that she can get a better view of him. She's craved the sight of him so, these past few months. More than any human being should. Almost codependency, really.

But no. Life is better beside him. Life is better knowing his soul.

"Ray, whatever you've done? This makes up for it. This is redemption."

He laughs, head thrown back, that awful chortle of his. God, she's missed him. God, she's missed everything about him. "That easy, really?"

"Oh, I forgot," she simpers back. "There's one more thing in the redemption clause."

"And what's that?" he inquires, pressing surer to her middle where a particularly strong kick was positioned. There's light in his eyes, now. She wants that light to stay.

"You have to kiss me," she says.

And he kisses her like their universe is dependent on it.

.

.

.

.

fin

/

_A/N- So, I will say THANK YOU to all the amazing welcomes I've gotten from posting my other story. I had kind of mentally pictured each component of this piece over the past week or so, but when I sat down to write, there was no stopping my fingers, and two hours later, voila. Any mistakes are absolutely my own, as I have no beta, and I'm fifteen years old, so if any of my grammar seems a little off, it's likely because I haven't even had the proper instruction yet. I'm so happy to be a part of this fandom now. _

_Also, I own nothing. Seriously. Fifteen. Don't even own my socks. _


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